


Trespass Sweetly Urged

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [6]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Best Friends, Bruises, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Pining, Repression, Sexual Fantasy, Spit As Lube, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It’s more comfortable with less on, Izaya thinks, and everyone else in the house is asleep; and if he lets his fingertips trail against the line of his hip and wander over the tension at his stomach, well, it’s as good a way to get himself to sleep as anything else." Izaya's coping methods are convoluted and entrenched, but in the end, he always comes back to the same thing.





	1. Distance

It’s late by the time Izaya lets himself back into the dark of his silent house. His clothes took longer to dry at Shizuo’s place than he expected them to; the denim of his jeans especially, even now it’s still uncomfortably damp against the weight of the seams at his hips and the inside of his thighs. But the sun set some hours ago, and even the cleanup after dinner only spanned a half hour, and Izaya can’t justify spending the night at the Heiwajima house when he only intended to linger for the afternoon. Besides, Shizuo had offered to walk him home, and there are few things Izaya likes more, he thinks, than pacing out the night-dark streets of the city with Shizuo at his elbow to huff laughter at his teasing and tip in to bump at his shoulder whenever Izaya scores a particularly good hit. Shizuo’s newly-dyed hair looks paler at night, Izaya finds, it glows like moonlight in the illumination of the occasional streetlight; even when they arrive at the front of Izaya’s home Izaya has to take a moment to look at Shizuo all over again, to accustom himself to the new color of the other’s hair to go with the absolute familiarity of his dark eyes, of his curving smile.

“Are your sisters home?” Shizuo asks as they pause at the front step of the house, frowning as he considers the darkened windows in front of them. “They should be in bed by now, shouldn’t they?”

“I’m sure they are,” Izaya says, though he’s sure of nothing of the sort. “Don’t worry, I’ll tiptoe going up the stairs.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums, though he sounds distracted; he’s still looking at the front of the house, his forehead creasing on the concern that hasn’t lessened even over those years it’s had the time to become as familiar to Izaya as the shape of the other’s face. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

“This is my _home_ , senpai,” Izaya points out with as much condescending drawl as he can fit on the words. “If I’m not safe from muggings here then I’ll just have to take my chances.” Shizuo looks away from the windows and back to Izaya next to him, still frowning uncertainty; Izaya wonders if he knows how much more intimidating the expression is with his much-lightened hair. It’s easy for Izaya to let the corner of his mouth curve up, easy to let his head tip to the side; when he speaks his voice lilts over amusement he doesn’t have to reach for. “With the way you look right now, anyone who saw us would think you were a bully trying to force me to let you into my home.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases on confusion for a breath; Izaya can see the exact moment he remembers the change to his appearance, can see the flush that hits the other’s cheeks before he lifts a hand to shove against his hair. “Shut up, I do not.”

“I’m the one who can see you,” Izaya points out as he pulls the door of his house open without looking away from the smile he’s giving Shizuo. “But of course you’re right, if you say so, senpai.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, his frown breaking into laughter, and he pulls his hand from his own hair to rumple through Izaya’s instead. Izaya grins and ducks his head, going through only the barest motions of trying to pull away while actually succeeding at nothing of the sort.

“Quiet,” he tells Shizuo in the loudest stage-whisper he can manage. “Some people in this house are trying to sleep. Shouldn’t you be in bed yourself?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shizuo says, sounding completely unapologetic as his hand slides over Izaya’s hair, landing for a heartbeat of time at the other’s shoulder before he lets it fall. “I’m going. Are you actually going to go to sleep at a reasonable hour?”

“I’ll be in bed before you get home,” Izaya promises, still holding to the handle of the door and smiling around the edge of the frame at Shizuo. “Promise.”

“Uh huh.” Shizuo sounds unconvinced but he doesn’t push the issue; he’s moving away instead, walking down the steps to head back towards the main street as he lifts a hand to wave farewell. “We’ll see how tired you look tomorrow.”

Izaya tips his shoulder in against the inside of the door as he watches Shizuo leave and pitches his voice loud to call after him. “You’d better apologize when I’m glowing with a good night’s sleep in the morning.”

Shizuo laughs. “I will,” he promises. “‘Night, Izaya.”

“Bye, senpai.” Izaya stays where he is just inside the open door of his home while he watches Shizuo turn to stride away towards the street, his newly bleached hair glowing white-gold in the pale illumination of the nighttime city; and then he ducks his head, and turns away, and slips into the house so he can let the door swing shut behind him.

He doesn’t bother turning on a light. He knows the entry and hallway well enough to navigate by touch alone, and it’s easy enough to turn the lock on the front door and slip his shoes off at one corner of the tile. From there the stairway is to the right, a pair of steps diagonally across the smooth polish of the floor as he reaches to catch at the banister with one hand; and then up, counting steps as he goes so he knows when he’s reached the top without needing to rely on the angle of the railing changing under his hand. He pauses at the doorway to the twins’ room, turning the handle so he can ease the door open silently and look in on them; they’re asleep as promised, turned in towards each other in the bottom bunk they end up sharing more often than not and with the soft rise and fall of their breathing illuminated by the computer screen still playing over some muted cartoon. Izaya retreats back out of the room as silently as he entered, pulling the door shut with barely a whisper of the wood sliding against the frame; and then he turns back down the darkened hallway, trailing his fingers idly against the wall as he counts out the steps to his shut door of his own bedroom at the end of the hall.

He waits until he’s inside with the door shut behind him before he turns the light on. The illumination is blinding, it burns against his dark-adjusted eyes and makes him squint against the ache of involuntary tears that start at the brilliant glow; but he leaves it on, blinking the blur of moisture back from his vision as he makes his way across the clutter on his floor and towards the desk and bed in the corner. He strips his shirt off as he approaches, has the clothing loose in his hands to toss towards the laundry hamper in the corner as he steps closer; he pauses by the chair in front of the desk so he can balance himself with one hand while he slips his socks off first one and then the other foot, layering them together before sending them in an arc to follow his shirt. That just leaves his jeans, the damp weight of them dragging at his hips as he reaches to unfasten the front; and then they’re free too, sliding down to his ankles so he can step out of them and drape them over the back of his chair to finish drying, and he’s left in just his briefs and the summer-warm humidity of the room around him.

The sheets of his bed are unmade from this morning still, the weight of the fabric rumpled in on itself from the marks of Izaya’s ever-restless sleep the night before. Izaya takes a moment to tug them straight, to smooth the lines of the blankets across the bed into the appearance of order; only for a moment, after all, before he drops to sprawl across them and fix his gaze on the glow of the light overhead. The brilliance of the illumination makes him think of the streetlights outside, of the gold catching to glow against Shizuo’s bleached hair; and Izaya smiles without thinking of the expression at all.

Shizuo really _is_ easy to predict, he reflects; it’s easy to push him into the right reactions, easy to draw irritation or amusement or a smile from him with the right kind of stimulus. There’s always some measure of uncertainty after that, of course -- it’s hard to say exactly how far his irritation will stretch, or how much of his amusement will take the form of physical force and how much verbal teasing -- but Izaya’s sure, by now, he has the basic reaction settled. Like bleaching his hair. Izaya wasn’t completely sure he could talk Shizuo around to that one; but Shizuo is the one who had asked him to do it, in the end, after the months of silence that always seem to come before Shizuo committing to some major change. The thought makes Izaya smile wider; he thinks he would be pleased just with the knowledge that he’s been able to convince Shizuo into changing this aspect of himself, even if he hadn’t been able to help with the process itself. As it is he got to see the shift of Shizuo’s hair lightening to gold from its original brown, got to fit his fingers into the soft wet of the yellow as he rinsed the chemicals free of the strands; he thinks he can still smell the faint traces of the bleach on his hands if he tries, imagines the chemical tang is yet clinging to his dried shirt and the damp of his jeans from when Shizuo shoved him down against the wet floor of the bathroom and turned the spray of the showerhead on him to soak him to skin.

The air in the room is hot. Izaya can feel the cling of humidity sticking to the back of his neck and pinning the thin of his sheets against the inside of his knees; he thinks vaguely of opening the window, of turning the light off and drawing the curtains open to billow in what wind he can catch from the summertime warmth pressing against him. Or a shower, maybe, with the water turned cool to rinse over the back of his neck and wash that lingering hint of chemical smell from his skin; and it’s while he’s thinking about it that Izaya is reaching for the top edge of his briefs, and pushing the catch of the elastic down and free of his body. It’s more comfortable with less on, he thinks, and everyone else in the house is asleep; and if he lets his fingertips trail against the line of his hip and wander over the tension at his stomach, well, it’s as good a way to get himself to sleep as anything else. He fixes his gaze on the glow of the light overhead, and draws his fingers into a hold against himself, and lets his wrist fall into the steady stroke of a familiar rhythm while his mind wanders over thoughts as vague and unformed as the drift of his fingers a moment ago.

He liked bleaching Shizuo’s hair, he thinks. There was something satisfying to the feel of his fingers working the harsh tang of the chemicals in against the other’s scalp, something pleasing to seeing the color of the strands fade from brown to wheat-gold yellow as a way of measuring the passage of time better than Shizuo’s habitual impatience. Even the rinsing was more fun than otherwise; with the air as warm as it is Izaya doesn’t even mind that he came out more wet than he had intended, doesn’t mind that his teasing ended up with him on his back on the tile of Shizuo’s bathroom with the other pinning him down for the splash of the spray against his face. Izaya deserved it, he’s sure; and there was something thrilling about it, about blinking water from his eyes to look up at that familiar grin framed with the hair of a stranger, with the appearance of some unknown delinquent leaning in over Izaya to hold him down for whatever he chose to do to him. There was no question of wiggling free; Shizuo had caught Izaya’s hips tight between the press of his legs, even Izaya’s instinctive struggle to escape from the splash of the water had run up against that resistance as if against a wall. He might as well have had an unshakeable weight crushing him to the bathroom floor in place of Shizuo’s lean frame; it would have made no real difference to his ability to get free.

Izaya’s hand is moving faster, the rhythm of his motion gaining speed as his breathing catches, as his skin prickles into heat greater even than that carried by the warmth of the air around him. He’s not thinking about the tension forming to a knot low in his stomach, or the strain flexing in against the tops of his thighs; he’s watching the bright glow of the light overhead, and thinking about the spray of water against yellow hair, and the slide of his fingers through washed-clean strands, and the warm damp of bare shoulders tipping back against his shirt. Shizuo’s hair had parted over the back of his neck when he ducked his head to the water; Izaya had watched the shift of muscle across the other’s shoulders as he leaned forward, as he bowed his head down into unthinking surrender to Izaya standing behind him. Shizuo’s voice had sounded odd under the rush of the shower, echoed off the walls of the bathroom and the wet of the tile until it sounded lower and warmer than usual, like it was taking on the same heavy humidity that so fills the summer air; and Izaya’s breathing catches, the spike of heat in his body startling for how little attention he’s been paying to it. It’s like it’s someone else’s body, like it’s someone else’s reactions; his own thoughts are far away and distant, caught in retracing memories that have nothing at all to do with the pleasure unfolding from the drag of his hand over himself. He’s just letting off tension, just answering the demands of his body while occupying his mind elsewhere; but it’s hard to tell himself that with his breathing catching hot in his chest and his thoughts fracturing at the edges, like he’s watching his plausible deniability shudder and crumble under his hold even as he reaches for it.

Izaya sets his jaw, focuses his gaze with intention on the light overhead. He’s not pressing his eyes shut, he’s not imagining anyone at all; there’s no structure of a fantasy in his mind, he tells himself, there’s no connection between the catch of his breathing and the idle recollection of the day in his thoughts. He’s just remembering the events of the day, drifting through his own memory without any real goal in calling up the wet of the shower splashing against his hands, and the edge of Shizuo’s smile cutting up at him, and the weight of Shizuo’s body pinning his hips to the floor with such casual--

Izaya gasps a lungful of air, shakes his head hard to clear it. He’s losing his grip on his defensive walls, he can feel them coming down; he has to retreat, has to pull back from that trembling edge in his thoughts before he slips and goes over. He’s just thinking about his day, he tells himself, feeling the insistence take on a desperate edge in spite of his best attempts to hold it calm and steady; it has nothing to do with the heat pooling in his stomach, nothing at all to do with the electricity surging up his spine. He went to visit a friend, to have Shizuo greet him at the door with that smile he always has for Izaya and the morning sunlight catching to shine at the dark of his unbleached hair; it’s just friendship, it has nothing at all to do with the speeding movement of Izaya’s hand and the pace of his breathing rushing to greater heights in his chest. There’s no weight to the way Shizuo touched the back of his elbow to lead him through the hallways as familiar to Izaya as those in his own home, no meaning to the way Shizuo’s eyelashes dipped when he ducked his head into a laugh at Izaya’s easy teasing. The fit of borrowed clothes sitting too-large on Izaya’s shoulders, the weight of Shizuo’s knee pressing against Izaya’s while they ate the dinner Shizuo’s mother is always happy to provide; the walk home through the falling shadows of night, with Shizuo’s newly pale hair to catch and glow startlingly bright with each hint of illumination. It doesn’t matter, Izaya tells himself, that’s not what’s pushing his breathing fast in his chest, his physical reaction is completely separate from--and he remembers fingers in his hair, the touch of a too-strong hand gone gentle to ruffle against the dark weight of the strands, and Izaya’s back arches, his throat tenses, and he’s coming in a sharp, almost-painful rush of relief through all his tight-locked muscles. Each surge of heat rushes through his whole body, from the angled-back line of his throat down to the straining curl of his toes against the sheets under him; and for a brief, blessed eternity, Izaya’s not thinking about anything at all.

The mental distance lingers, at least, after the pleasure has released him to leave him panting and shaky against his bed. The sheets cling to the damp of sweat at his shoulderblades and along the curve of his spine; Izaya can feel them shifting when he moves, can feel the weight like an embodiment of the humidity that is so burdening the air against him and making his breathing come with such strain in his chest. He stares up at the light overhead, breathes deep, deliberate inhales of the summer-hot air to fill the need of his desperate lungs; and he carefully, consciously, doesn’t think about what he’s just done, doesn’t reach to make any kind of a connection between the satisfaction that has knocked him so languid and heavy against his bed and the easy affection in his memories of the day.

If he doesn’t admit to seeing the link, there’s no one to know to call him out on the lie.


	2. Unfocused

Izaya’s chest hurts.

This isn’t anything new. It’s been hurting for days, now, aching dully with every breath he takes as the air filling his lungs strains against the deep-down bruise laid into his side from the weight of the kick that knocked him back against the side of an isolated alley. If anything it’s less bad now than it has been, as slow healing finally eases the sharpest edge of hurt from his attention; or he’s become accustomed to it, at least, has learned to ignore it most of the time at school and through the evenings of study or conversation. But it’s been aching all evening, today, throbbing a dull hurt into the whole of his body until he can barely keep his mind on the patter of conversation around him, can barely keep up even the appearance of attention for his sisters and the regular addition of Shizuo to their company, until he’s more relieved than otherwise when Shizuo leaves, and Mairu and Kururi go to their evening bath, and Izaya can retreat to the safety of his room.

It takes some effort to pull his shirt up and free. The bruising against his side makes any motion tentative, forces him to move carefully if he doesn’t want to be knocked breathless by a surge of pain; but Izaya doesn’t hesitate, once he gets the door shut and locked behind him. He just moves at once, quickly, before he has time to flinch or brace himself against the hurt, and the action of stripping his shirt up over his head leaves him gasping and shaky as the clothing drops to the floor from his uncaring fingers. His whole side is ablaze, dark-bruised skin and damaged muscles alike protesting this sudden motion; and in the pit of his stomach there’s heat, curling to a tight coil around itself at the surge of sensation, until Izaya is more than half-hard even as he moves to drop to sit on the floor alongside his bed.

He doesn’t bother stripping himself down entirely. He’s been shaky with barely-restrained hurt all day, has felt the edge of this hovering in the back of his awareness with every deep breath or unwary motion he makes; the satisfaction here will be in the roughness, in the vicious speed of his hand against himself and the ache he can pull from his injuries with every shift of his shoulder. He angles his knees open, drags at his zipper to pull open the fly of his jeans; and then he’s reaching down, and curling his fingers around himself, and letting his head drop back against the bed behind him with the anticipation of relief even before he’s started stroking.

He’s aching for it already. His black eye is fading, more color than pain at this point; even pressing his fingers against the hurt doesn’t more than twinge sensation into his body, doesn’t offer more than a flutter of reaction against the inside of his chest. But the injury over his ribs is worse, deeper and far more expansive, until all Izaya has to do is lift his free arm up to lie across the bed to pull all the aching injury taut with straining pain enough to jolt his breathing, to white-out his thoughts, to flush his cock fully hard against his grip.

He shuts his eyes to the distraction of the room around him. There’s nothing worth looking at anyway, no fixed point on which to pin his gaze; and his imagination is already stepping in, is already forming out the beginnings of a fantasy clear enough to fill in the whole of the gap left by Izaya’s cut-off vision. His arm angles up over his head, his fingers catch into a fist at his hair; and his imagination purrs into life, shifting the familiar angle of his own fingers into someone else’s, into the weight of a strong hand bracing close against the back of Izaya’s head with something between stability and threat. Izaya shifts his knees wider, imagines the shadow of someone else fitting between them, of a hand sliding down against the bruise marring his side to grip hard against his hip; and in his hand, against his sliding fingers, his cock twitches with heat, surging itself to sharper arousal as his breathing catches on the ache of mingled pain and desire in his chest.

It’s easy to find the shape of the fantasy. It’s like it was there waiting for Izaya, like the back of his mind had been forming it through the long hours of the day he’s been spending trying to look aside from the whisper of pain at his side. Wide-braced knees, hands at his hips, casual strength lifting him up and off the floor to pull in against the taut promise at the front of dark jeans; and Izaya groans far in the back of his throat and angles his elbow up higher so the angle will pull harder against his side. He can imagine it, can feel the ache against the inside of his thighs as he spreads his legs as wide as they will go, wider, as he imagines a careless hand at his side and slick fingers pushing down between his thighs, as his body tightens with the thought of a finger thrusting into him, a touch working him open as his back arches, as his breathing catches into a moan of desire. The flash of teeth, the low purr of a laugh deep enough Izaya can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the weight of his balls; and motion, that touch shoving up into him to stretch him open, to work his straining body warm and ready for the use of the unspecified partner he pictures pushing him up against the edge of his bed. Another finger, slick with lube and textured into calluses from years of fighting, from scars long-healed into smooth stripes of skin across knuckles and palm alike; and Izaya has to let his grip tighten at the base of his cock, has to stop moving for a moment while he pants and shudders his way through the tremors of arousal that follow from the heat of his fantasy. There’s no face to go with the partner in his imagination, no name to set free from the tension of want in his chest; but it’s enough to imagine the sensation, to fantasize a pair of fingers pressing inside his body with strokes that come smoother with every motion, thrusts that sink a little bit deeper with each repetition.

Izaya lets his hand in his hair go and twists his palm down to clutch at the sheets behind him instead as he resumes the deliberate stroke of his grip over himself. That’s the same between his imagination and reality, the friction of his own hand urging himself closer towards satisfaction; but he barely thinks of it, barely notes the actual experience of the sensation. He’s lost in his own imagination, his attention scattered by the illusion of fingers slipping back and free of his body, of a hand coming to settle against his hip instead to pull him up and onto the other’s lap. Izaya’s back arches, his body straining up against the pull of the bruise aching at his side; and in his head the ache is from the drift of fingers, from the weight of a palm settling in warm and steady against the injury staining his skin with color. Izaya shudders with the sensation, with the imagined electricity of contact spilling out into his veins from the press of that hand at his side, and in his head the hold at his hip tightens, fingers dragging his weight forward without hesitation to pull him against the resistance of a hard cock, to press the thick-swollen head in against his slick entrance. Izaya whimpers at the back of his throat, his fingers tightening harder in the strokes he’s taking over himself; and in his imagination there’s a huff of an exhale, a breath easing into intention, and thighs flexing, hips rocking up, and heat sliding up and into the strain of his body.

Izaya’s panting for air, now. His cock is slick under his touch, the head going damp with droplets of pre-come; but all he’s hearing is the voice of his imagined partner, the low groan as the other’s cock sinks deep into Izaya over him. Izaya’s shuddering, trembling just with the imagination of the tension, of the overwhelming pressure driving into him; but that hand would still be at his hip, those fingers still braced at his side in a hold no less inescapable for how gentle it would be. Izaya would be fixed in place, as good as motionless under the careful grip of those hands on him; and “ _Izaya_ ,” the other would groan, his voice breaking over the sound with too much heat to hold to his usual honorifics. Izaya’s hand would be against the flex of a shoulder, his fingers would clutch for traction against bleached-blond hair; and then his imagination lets the last inch of the other’s length sink into him, and Izaya groans something sharp and short and helpless as his cock twitches in his grip and spills into heat across his bruised stomach. He’s shuddering through the whole of his body, his whole self trembling with each jolt of pleasure that runs through him, each quiver of pain that follows the involuntary motion; until finally the last of the aftershocks fade, and Izaya is left panting against the edge of his bed with his hand still tight against his cock, his come drying sticky over his bruised stomach, and his whole body too shaky with exhaustion for him to do anything but lie back against the support behind him.

By the time he moves to clean himself up, he’s let all the details of his fantasy except his own satisfaction fade from his memory.


	3. Involuntary

Izaya barely makes it up the stairs to his bedroom.

He ought to make for the kitchen, he knows. Shizuo had told him to ice the swelling rising to a sharp ache against Izaya’s hip, had coupled the order with the frown that says he’s serious, that says he’ll ask tomorrow if Izaya did as he told him to today; and Izaya does intend to take Shizuo’s advice in this if in nothing else. But his hands are shaking when he pulls the door to the house shut, his fingers trembling with so much heat it’s hard to manage the lock at the door, and Izaya knows absolutely that he lacks the willpower to get the promised ice before he goes upstairs. So he turns his back on the door, and holds to the wall for balance while he toes his shoes off in the entryway; and then he limps towards the stairs, feeling every step jolt pain through the whole of his body and barely even noticing it for the heat.

He has to get to his room. It would be easier to stay downstairs, to collect ice from the kitchen and sleep on the couch without bothering with the struggle of going up the flight of steps that seems endless when every step brings agony with it; but Kururi and Mairu are home, if asleep in their room, and Izaya needs privacy, needs it so badly he feels the ache of desperation climbing high enough to override even the self-preservation that tells him to stop moving, that tells him to surrender to the pain and go easy on his injured body. It doesn’t matter that he’s lost his grasp on denial, doesn’t matter that he’s going to have to deal with the consequences later; right now all that matters is that he get behind a locked door and out of his clothes as soon as possible.

He almost falls through the door of his bedroom. He thought he had pulled it shut when he left; but he was mistaken, or maybe the twins have been meddling in his things again, because when he grabs at the handle for support the door swings in under his weight, sending him stumbling forward and hissing against the pain the precipitous motion brings. He catches himself on his first step, moves forward for his second; and the bruise rising at his hip robs him of stability, strips the strength from his leg and sends him toppling forward to land hard against his knee, with only the desperate hold he has on the handle of his door to keep him even close to upright. It’s painful, the impact at his knee and the wrenching force at his arm both; but Izaya doesn’t pause to take stock of that, because he’s in his room at last, and that means he can shove the door shut behind him, and turn the lock to guarantee himself privacy, and drop heavily to sit on the floor before the door and surrender to the need in him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been hard. He’s been trying to not think about it, trying to not let his attention dip down to the ache in his stomach, to the strain of his cock against the front of his pants; he has years of experience in turning away, uncounted episodes to practice ignoring what he wants, to polish his ability to find satisfaction for himself without thinking at all about the origin. But even he can’t avoid this, can’t turn aside from the immediate reality of his legs angled open around Shizuo’s body, of the warm weight of Shizuo’s back pressing close against his chest; and when Izaya drops his head back against the support of the door behind him it’s with a whimpered exhale that is as much terrified surrender as it is anticipation of the pleasure to come.

Izaya wonders, as he drags his jeans open and pushes the clothing off his hips, if Shizuo noticed, wondered if Shizuo was paying attention to the strain in Izaya’s body against him, to the heat pressing close against the dip of his spine. It’s an intoxicating thought, as arousing as it is terrifying; that Shizuo might _know_ , that Shizuo might have felt the evidence of Izaya’s desire and known absolutely how entirely he holds Izaya in the palm of his hand, known how helplessly desperate Izaya is for his touch. Izaya’s spent years trying to disguise that fact, trying to turn away from the reality and close his eyes to the fact of his own want; and now it could all be undone as easily as that, with the betrayal of his traitorous body to unveil all his lies as what they are. Shizuo could have realized, maybe already _has_ realized, maybe knows, now, that he could have followed Izaya into his house and up those too-long stairs and into his bedroom to -- and Izaya wraps his fingers hard around the heat of his cock, and strokes up fast, and gives himself up to the fantasy.

Shizuo would have carried him up the stairs, Izaya thinks, would have taken the whole flight without so much as hesitating over the effort. He wasn’t even breathing hard on the front step, even after carrying Izaya for what must have been a mile or more, he would hardly be dissuaded by the few strides up a familiar staircase. Into Izaya’s bedroom, through the cracked-open door; and down, onto the floor, dropping Izaya to collapse against the door as quickly as Shizuo turned to catch him, to hold him, to brace him back against the support behind him and crush the heat of his mouth down against Izaya’s. He would be desperate, Izaya thinks, too certain in himself and in Izaya’s too-obvious desire to wait for unnecessary permission; his hand at the back of Izaya’s neck to brace the other steady against the force of his mouth, his fingers gripping against the angle of Izaya’s hip. Izaya reaches across his body to fit his own fingers there, to dig in with fingernails that are the closest approximation he can find for the overwhelming, shattering force of Shizuo’s hands on his body; and he’s hissing, his cock jerking in his hold until he thinks he might come just from that, just from the thought of Shizuo holding him back motionless against his door. It would be easy to let himself go, to bring himself over the edge and into satisfaction right now; but he doesn’t want to let this fantasy go so soon, not now that he’s already given in to the dangers of the indulgence. So he eases his grip on his hip, and slows the motion of his stroking hand, and tips his knees open wide as he tries to regain the details of his fantasy, as he loses himself to the hazy allure of desire and imagination together.

Shizuo’s hands would be steady at Izaya’s body. Izaya can imagine it perfectly, with all the clarity of recent memory to print Shizuo’s fingerprints against his skin, to press Shizuo’s hands in under his legs. Izaya could cling to Shizuo’s shoulders, could give himself up to the force of the other’s presence, that same all-encompassing reality Shizuo carries with him wherever he goes, could let Shizuo drop to a knee and strip Izaya’s jeans down and off him to bare the shake of his unsteady legs, to expose the hard heat of the arousal Izaya couldn’t help but press in against the small of Shizuo’s back as the other carried him home. Izaya can picture the way Shizuo’s lashes would dip, the way his mouth would quirk on amusement at Izaya’s obvious want; the way he would lean in, maybe, to press his nose to the crease of Izaya’s hip, to gust a warm breath hot over Izaya’s length and into the gap between his shaking thighs. Izaya groans in the back of his throat, his hips rocking up in reality to match the arc of motion he would take in the space of his imagination; but Shizuo wouldn’t give in to the suggestion of that helpless thrust, would just purr over a laugh in the back of his throat before getting to his feet again to pin Izaya back against the door with his hands framing the other’s hips and his mouth pressing heat to Izaya’s lips.

Izaya shudders with the thought of it, with the imagined taste of Shizuo’s tongue sliding against his mouth and the weight of Shizuo’s hands lifting him up, urging his feet off the floor while Izaya clings to his shoulders and struggles to catch his legs to a hold around Shizuo’s hips. That’s clear too, he knows how wide his knees would be, knows how much strain he’d have against the inside of his thighs; and he’s canting his knees open, sliding his feet wide against the floor of his room while he tries to call up the exact feel of Shizuo’s body against his, the flex of muscle underneath his legs and the press of fingers bracing at the inside of his knee. Shizuo could hold him up against the support of the door easily, without so much as straining himself; and Izaya trembles again, helpless to the heat that rushes through him. He’d be pinned in place, braced between the angle of Shizuo’s shoulders and the grip of the other’s hand at his knee holding him steady, spreading his legs wide to make an open offering of the heat of his body for the raw edge of Shizuo’s desire. Izaya imagines Shizuo’s head ducked down, his pale hair falling in front of his expression as his gaze slides down Izaya’s body, over the rush of his breathing and the flush of his cock and down to the tension of his entrance, to the flex of strain in the shadows between his legs; and Izaya whimpers, the sound humming in his throat as his body arches forward off the door behind him like it’s giving itself up for the force of Shizuo’s stare, baring all Izaya’s years of want at once in the tremor of heat tensing all through his body.

Izaya lets his hand at his hip go and brings his fingers to his mouth instead. His lips are parted, his breathing catching rough in his chest; he presses his touch in against his tongue to lick wet against the skin. He has lube by the bed, he knows, it would be easy to pause long enough to make use of it; but he can imagine Shizuo’s eyes dark with heated want, with desire too overwhelming to pause for even a few moments of hesitation, and so when he brings his hand down between his legs it’s with his skin slick with saliva to match the image in his head, of Shizuo’s spit-wet fingers sliding between his thighs to push against the tension of his entrance. Izaya takes a breath, feels himself flexing tighter in involuntary reaction; and then pushes in hard, forcing both fingers inside himself at once as his imagination tightens Shizuo’s hold at his knee and strains his body open against Shizuo’s fingers. Izaya’s breath rushes out of his lungs, spilling into a moan he can’t try to restrain any more than he can help the flex of his cock in his hand; and in his mind Shizuo’s lashes dip, Shizuo’s breathing rushes hot against his skin. The fingers in him are moving hard, stroking him open with haste born of desperation, of need too long repressed to now be held back; and Izaya is giving way to them, surrendering to the demands of those driving thrusts as inevitably as he gave way to the force of Shizuo’s hands on him. There’s no denial left in him, no chance at repressing the gasping inhales pulling hard in his chest; he’s working deep into himself with his fingers, pressing friction into the space of his body while the hand he had stroking over himself stills to the distraction, pausing to stave off the inevitable rise of pleasure in him. He doesn’t want to come yet, not when he’s so close, not with Shizuo’s fingers in him instead of--and in his head Shizuo draws his touch back with a low sound of impatient want, and in his hand Izaya’s cock jerks hard against his hold.

Izaya can see it behind his shut eyes, can picture it with the absolute clarity of attention he wouldn’t admit to giving to this subject, at most times of his life. Shizuo dragging at the fly of his slacks one-handed, forcing the zipper down without bothering with removing any of the rest of his clothing; his fingers dipping into the shadows of the fabric to draw out the hard heat of his cock, swollen stiff with want even before he spits against his palm to stroke up over himself. Izaya can imagine it too well, the dark curve of Shizuo’s length weighting against the grip of his fingers, the proof of the other’s desire jutting out from the familiar lines of his work uniform; and then Shizuo letting himself go, and reaching out for Izaya instead as preparation gives way to intention. Izaya tips his legs wider, imagines Shizuo’s hands pressing his knees back and up, until they’re almost flush with the wall, until Izaya is panting with the tension against the inside of his thighs; but Shizuo is looking down instead of at his face, his attention fixed on the angle of his cock straining towards Izaya’s body and the taut heat of Izaya’s entrance slick and open from the force of his wet fingers. Izaya’s breathing catches, his shoulders flex against the wall behind him; and in his head Shizuo rocks forward hard, his cock driving deep into Izaya’s body as in reality Izaya’s fingers thrust as far into himself as he can reach, and Izaya can feel everything in him go tense with inevitability.

He tries to fight it off. He’s not ready, he wants more, wants to imagine Shizuo pinning him to the wall and fucking him with all the pent-up desperation of years, wants to imagine the rattle of the door in the frame and the gasp of Shizuo’s breathing at his neck, wants to imagine the pressure of Shizuo’s cock swelling inside him and the sudden rush of heat filling his body as Shizuo groans into orgasm against him; but there’s no time, there’s no holding himself back, and all he can do is arch against his door and groan in helpless, broken surrender as his whole body seizes tight on the premonition of orgasm. He can feel Shizuo’s grip tighten at his knees, can hear the sharp inhale of shock as the other feels Izaya clench around him; and then Izaya moans, “ _Shizuo_ ” spilling from his lips on the first rush of heat, and in his head there’s a last glimpse of Shizuo’s mouth curving on a grin of satisfied delight before even Izaya’s imagination gives way to the convulsions of sensation that sweep through him.

He comes in long, helpless tremors, his whole body wringing tight against the strain of pleasure rushing through him until he’s left breathless, and shaking, and with his eyes burning in spite of the darkness of his tight-shut lids. Izaya stays still for a long moment, letting the last of the heat run through him until his sweat-warm skin has gone clammy with chill and his pleasure-roughened breathing is catching on the start of panic instead; and then he moves all at once, shoving up hard from his position at the floor and stumbling forward to drop alongside his bed with so much speed that even the quiver of his bruised hip doesn’t have time to get traction enough to topple him forward. He fumbles for the box of tissues slid under the edge of the bed, cleaning his hand and stomach with hasty, unthinking speed before tossing the tissues away and refastening his pants with shaking fingers. It’s only once his clothes are back in place and the evidence of his indulgence is gone that Izaya draws his knees up towards his chest, and leans forward to press his forehead against them, and curls his arms in over his head to block out any distraction at all while he does his best to forget what he’s just done, to strip the pressure of Shizuo’s mouth and the grip of Shizuo’s fingers and the heat of Shizuo’s cock from his imagination like they were never there at all.

His hip is brittle with pain by the time he pushes to his feet again to venture downstairs in pursuit of the promised ice, but Izaya doesn’t flinch from it, just sets his mouth and clenches his teeth and bears the pain as he makes his way down the stairs and along the hallway towards the kitchen.

If nothing else, he’s good at ignoring things he doesn’t want to face.


	4. Face to Face

Izaya has just pushed his pants over the edge of the bed when he hears the sound of the shower shutting off.

He’s been coordinating his timing in the back of his head for the last several minutes, waiting through the sound of Shizuo washing his hair and counting on the few minutes the other always spends lingering under the warm spray of the water for those nights that he takes his shower just before coming in to bed. Izaya sprawled out across the bed as soon as the splash of the water said Shizuo was safely distracted for at least a few minutes and let his fingers wander against the waistband of his jeans as his thoughts wandered over possible fantasies; but it’s only once he can hear the sound of Shizuo moving to finish rinsing his hair clean that he finally lets his touch fall to the button of his jeans and the weight of the fly, pulled taut now over the arousal Izaya has been slowly stirring himself to with the half-formed images in his head. He pushes his jeans off his hips along with his briefs, sitting up so he can drop them over the edge of the mattress and to the floor; and it’s then that the water turns off, and Izaya can feel his heartrate speed with the surge of anticipation that hits him just from that.

He doesn’t rush. He listens to Shizuo pulling back the curtain of the shower as he strips his shirt up over his head and lets it drop to the floor atop his forgotten pants; he listens to the rustle of fabric as Shizuo dries his hair to the tousled damp that is as much work as he’s ever willing to put into the effort before leaving the yellow locks to air-dry. Izaya settles himself in the middle of the bed, with a leg thrown out onto his side of the mattress but his head resting at the edge of Shizuo’s pillow; and then he lies back, and angles one arm up over his head, and lets his fingertips drag in against the line of his hip.

He’s already hard. That he doesn’t need any encouragement for; he thinks his plan for the evening would be enough to manage that all by itself, even without the fragments of favorite fantasies and half-imagined scenes he’s been playing over in his head for the last few minutes. But it’ll make for a better impact like this, with his skin flushed to pale color with heat and his cock slick with a few drops of precome before he’s even pressed his thumb to himself; Izaya weights his thumb against the wet as he thinks of it, pressing in against the resistance of his cock more to draw the slick shine out across his skin than in immediate pursuit of pleasure. The friction aches low in his stomach and tenses his legs in involuntary reaction, but Izaya doesn’t wrap his fingers into a hold on himself, just keeps trailing his touch against the heat of his skin and considering the way the light is hitting him, considering the picture he’ll make from the angle of the doorway. It’s not until he hears the footsteps coming down the hall that he finally wraps his hand around himself, pressing in hard with his grip, and when he pulls up over the aching heat of his cock the sensation is overwhelming enough to arch his back, and stutter his breathing, and leave him gasping unfeigned heat just as the bedroom door comes open and Shizuo steps through the doorway.

“Izaya, are you in--” he’s saying as he enters, his forehead creasing on confusion; and Izaya tips his head, and blinks himself into focus just as Shizuo sees him and his words die on his lips. Izaya can see the way Shizuo’s expression goes slack with shock, can see the part of the other’s lips on the rush of his breathing; and he can see the way Shizuo’s gaze drags down across the other’s bare skin, trailing against Izaya’s body from collarbone to ankle in immediate, involuntary surrender to the invitation the other is making of himself.

“Oh,” Izaya says, “Shizu-chan” and he doesn’t have to try to pull his voice into shadowed want, doesn’t have to put on any kind of an act of arousal; Shizuo’s stare is enough to do that all on its own, enough to make him glad he’s exactly as far away from orgasm as he is just to keep him from finishing right on the spot. The idea strikes him for a moment, the too-much clarity of Shizuo stepping into the room and looking up just in time to see Izaya shuddering into pleasure on the bed in front of him, under the weight of his gaze and nothing else, and Izaya has to still the motion of his hand entirely, has to swallow hard to regain some moisture for his lips. “I didn’t realize you were done.”

“You are such a liar,” Shizuo says, but the words are distant and distracted. He’s still staring at Izaya’s hand fisted around himself, his focus is still on the heat of the other’s bare skin. Izaya is more than happy to return the favor; Shizuo only has the damp of his hair dripping onto his shoulders and a towel around his hips to cover himself, and that balanced somewhat precariously against the dip of his waist. Izaya wonders what he’ll have to do to work the soft white of the towel loose of its hold on Shizuo’s body. “Have you been planning this since I left you alone?”

Izaya lets his lashes dip over his gaze, lets the corner of his mouth tug up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, senpai,” he says, and lets his knees shift a little wider on the bed so Shizuo can see the pale inside of his thighs. “I just thought I’d take advantage of my time alone to relieve some tension.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, that one word bearing an inordinate amount of skepticism. He shifts his feet and drops a hand to hold the towel closer to his side. His attention is clinging to Izaya’s hand instead of to the other’s face; Izaya thinks he can see the front of that obscuring towel shifting into tension over Shizuo’s hips. “I’m sure you did.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Izaya tells him. “I’ll just finish up and I’ll be ready for bed. Unless you have an objection?”

Shizuo shakes his head. The damp at his hair is shining damp in the light overhead. “No,” he says, and takes a half-step backwards towards the weight of the door behind him. When he leans against it Izaya can hear the _click_ of the latch falling into place. “Go right ahead.”

Izaya does. It’s easy to keep doing what he’s doing; the movement is simple, reflexive, the drag of friction up over himself running shuddering heat out into all his veins from that point of contact. It’s easier still with Shizuo standing at the doorway, even out of reach as he is; he’s staring at Izaya as fixedly as when he came in, with only the tension of his hand still bracing at the side of the towel around his hips to show that he’s paying the least attention to anything else. His eyes look very dark from across the distance of the room; Izaya can feel the focus in them as clearly as if it’s Shizuo’s hands trailing across his body instead of the shadows of his attention.

He takes a breath and draws his hand up higher over his head, angling it over him so he can tip his head in against the support of his arm, can draw Shizuo’s attention back up to his face with the motion. He smiles at the other as soon as Shizuo’s eyes meet his, lets his mouth curve around the soft heat of suggestion as he dips his lashes over his eyes.

“You look awkward just standing there,” he observes, letting his hips arch up to flex the inside of his thighs, to make an open offer of his bare skin for Shizuo’s attention. “Why don’t you come over here and put yourself to better use than just staring?”

Shizuo moves instantly by way of response. He still has his towel wrapped around his hips, still has the knot at the side holding it around himself; but the front is starting to tent over him, and the twist of fabric at the side shifts precariously as he steps forward to kneel at the end of the bed. Izaya wants to lift his foot, or his knee, or his hand, wants to push that soft white barrier down and away to fall to the sheets and leave Shizuo’s shower-damp skin as bare as his own; but that’s for later, he thinks, because right now he wants to make this last.

“I only have two hands,” he says as Shizuo slides up the bed towards him, holding his free hand up to demonstrate. “And I forgot to get the lube ready.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks on a barely-repressed laugh. “‘Forgot,’” he repeats. “You never forget anything, Izaya.”

“What a good thing you’re here to help,” Izaya continues, entirely ignoring Shizuo’s skeptical response. “Get the bottle for me.”

Shizuo’s gaze drops for a moment, skimming against the shift of Izaya’s body, the flex of his wrist as he strokes over himself, the open angle of his legs; but “Okay,” he says, and he does move after only a moment of hesitation, reaching out to brace himself against the edge of the bed so he can stretch for the bottle set alongside it. Izaya takes advantage of Shizuo’s movement to let his attention slide down the other’s shoulder and the flex of his chest, following the lean line of his waist to the burden of the towel falling tantalizingly open against the tension of his thigh; and then Shizuo is coming back and rocking over his heels as he offers the bottle for Izaya.

Izaya doesn’t take it. “You know,” he says, like he’s only just thinking of this. “I’m really not so good with my right hand.” He lifts his hand to demonstrate, wiggling his fingers through the air as if to demonstrate his lack of dexterity. “And I always make such a mess when I try to open the bottle one-handed.”

Shizuo’s mouth twitches. “And you can’t stop jerking yourself off for any time at all.”

“Of course not,” Izaya agrees. “I’d have to get resettled all over again, it would be terrible. And since I have you here…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shizuo says, attaining some very mild attempt at resignation on his tone. Izaya would be more impressed by this achievement if he couldn’t see the outline of Shizuo’s cock swelling hard under the fall of the towel over his hips, the rising heat of it so clear the cover makes it almost more obscene than otherwise. “You’re just taking advantage of me now.”

“What else is a bodyguard good for?” Izaya teases, and Shizuo does laugh, then, breaking into sincere amusement for a moment as he opens the lid of the bottle and spills liquid across his fingers.

“I see how it is,” he says as he reaches for the inside angle of Izaya’s close knee to brace his fingers in against the skin and tip the other’s legs a little wider open. “This is what you wanted me for all along, is that it?”

“Of course,” Izaya says. “Don’t you know how long I’ve been thinking of this?” He’s aiming for teasing; from the way Shizuo’s gaze skips up to his face and the way the other’s eyes go soft and dark for a moment of heat, he thinks he may have veered a little too far over into sincerity. He clears his throat and braces his hand up against the wall again before jerking his chin at Shizuo’s slick fingers. “Do I need to tell you where to put those too, or…?”

“I think I can figure that out myself,” Shizuo says, and suits actions to words immediately by pressing his hand down between Izaya’s thighs. His fingertips slide over Izaya’s entrance, the slick of his touch shudders tension up the whole of the other’s spine; but he doesn’t press in for a moment, just draws his touch up and across like he’s mapping out Izaya’s body under his touch, like he’s gauging the shudder of the other’s reactions to the promising friction of his fingertips. Izaya takes a breath, frames the beginning of a command against his tongue as Shizuo hesitates for another moment; but then the other’s wrist flexes, his touch presses up and in, and Izaya groans instead of protesting as one of Shizuo’s slick fingers slides into the heat of his body.

“Like that,” he says, and lets his leg fall wide over the sheets next to him, lets himself relax to the stretch of Shizuo’s touch. He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall to the side, ostensibly in pursuit of that languid relaxation and more specifically because he knows the movement will draw Shizuo’s gaze up to the line of his throat. “That’s better.”

“Good,” Shizuo says, his voice purring into shadows as his touch slides up to press deep into Izaya with the casual grace of familiarity. “Does it feel good, Izaya?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. He can feel the sensation of Shizuo’s movement rippling out through the whole of his body, uncurling up his spine and humming heat under his skin; it’s like anticipation spilling out to glow through every inch of his existence, like his body is reacting as much to the promise of tension to come as to the immediate friction of Shizuo’s touch working into his body. “It’s not bad.” He opens his eyes, just barely, so he’s looking sideways through the weight of his lashes at the other. “I mean I could probably do better myself, but it’s easier like this, so…”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, his mouth curving onto a smile that glows warm behind his eyes. “You could not.”

“I could,” Izaya tells him. “You’re too slow, Shizu-chan, I usually start with two fingers right off the bat.”

“What’s the rush?” Shizuo asks. “You have the whole evening for this, don’t you?”

“I thought you wanted to go to bed,” Izaya says. “I’d hate to deprive you of your beauty sleep just for a little satisfaction for me.”

Shizuo’s laugh is low, sounding almost like a seduction as it spills past his lips. “I don’t mind,” he says, and leans in towards Izaya’s shoulder to ghost a kiss against the other’s skin. “It’s more than a fair trade.”

“I’m so glad I’m worth an hour of sleep,” Izaya deadpans. He shifts the leg Shizuo is kneeling over, drawing it up by an inch to threaten the weight of the towel clinging to the other’s hips. “Isn’t it a work night? Do you think your employer will be that understanding when you show up exhausted tomorrow?”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. “I think I can make my case persuasive enough to convince him to take the morning off.” His wrist flexes, his touch slides in deeper; Izaya can feel himself clench reflexively around pressure, can feel the shudder in his legs as his body tenses on the desire to thrust up harder against the stroke of his hand over himself. “Maybe the whole day, even.”

“Slacker,” Izaya declares, and lets his hand fall against the back of Shizuo’s neck to trail towards the line of his shoulders. “Give me another.”

Shizuo draws his hand back without protest, sliding a slick finger back and out of Izaya so he can shift the angle of his hand to press two together at once and urge them in against the heat of Izaya’s entrance. Izaya lets the breath rush out of him as Shizuo’s fingers work into him, feels the strain verging onto the beginnings of pain as his body struggles to open to the force; but Shizuo goes slow, easing his touch in with practiced care until he’s deep enough to draw back carefully before thrusting in to gain an extra half-inch of motion.

“This isn’t even really masturbation anymore,” Shizuo says into Izaya’s shoulder, his voice low as his fingers work in deeper between the open strain of Izaya’s thighs. “When does this become sex, exactly?”

“Please,” Izaya pants, and resumes the stroking drag of the hand he had entirely lost track of in the first slick heat of Shizuo’s fingers pressing into him. “You’re just helping me out, there’s no need to make this weird.”

Shizuo snorts amusement at Izaya’s shoulder. “Make it _weird_?”

“Yes,” Izaya says, and lets his arm loop around Shizuo’s shoulders, lets his head tip in so his lips are brushing Shizuo’s hair. “You’re just being a good senpai and seeing to it your cute kouhai is well-looked after.”

“I see,” Shizuo says, and draws his fingers back to take a long, drawn-out thrust back in. Izaya can feel the pressure ache up the whole of his spine, can feel the heat of it twitch in his cock under his stroking hand. “So there’s nothing romantic about this?”

Izaya shakes his head. “Not at all.” His cock is going slick at the head, spilling droplets of damp against the drag of his fingers; he tightens his hold and pulls his palm up to work hard against the swollen head. “It’s just physical relief, it’s perfectly normal.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says. His fingers inside Izaya shift, his touch presses deep into the other’s body; Izaya shudders, his whole body tensing for a moment before he can recollect his breathing. “I suppose the same applies to me too?”

“Of course it does,” Izaya says, loosening his hold around Shizuo’s neck enough that he can tip away by a few inches and blink put-upon innocence up at the other. “Senpai, do you need to let off some tension of your own?” He trails his fingers down Shizuo’s shoulder and across the thrum of breathing in the other’s chest, down until he can fit his palm against the fall of the towel still caught against Shizuo’s hips. “You know all you have to do is ask.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh so low in his chest it sounds more like a groan than amusement and doesn’t do anything to lighten the darkness in the stare he has fixed on Izaya. “Is that all?”

“Of course.” Izaya presses up harder with his palm to pin the weight of the towel between Shizuo’s body and his hand; Shizuo’s lashes dip, his breathing drags on a groan. His hips jolt forward, his body flexing to buck instinctively against the resistance of Izaya’s hand. Izaya lets his gaze drop down, lets his lashes weight heavy over his eyes as he hooks his thumb under the top edge of the towel and tugs against the fall of it. “Anything for my favorite senpai.” The towel slides free, falling open as if it was just waiting for Izaya’s fingers to urge it loose, and Shizuo is laid bare for Izaya’s gaze, from the flex of his tense thighs and the strain at his stomach to the dark-flushed weight of his erection. Izaya can’t help the sound he makes in the back of his throat any more than he can help the way his fingers come out to draw along the length of Shizuo’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo groans, and he bucks forward again, with intention enough to slide the head of his cock up and against the press of Izaya’s fingertips. It makes Izaya’s cock jerk, makes his body clench as if it’s Shizuo’s length moving into him instead of the breadth of Shizuo’s fingers, and he’s curling his fingers in against the shaft of the other’s cock before he can think through the motion, dragging up in a rushed rhythm wholly at-odds with the press of Shizuo’s touch inside him and his steady stroking over his own length flushed heavy and hard under his grip.

“It’s just getting some relief,” he says as he drags up over them both, as he watches Shizuo’s hips flex and rock the other forward to fuck against the resistance of Izaya’s grip. “It’s only reasonable to offer a...a helping hand.”

“Of course,” Shizuo says, sounding like he’s not completely paying attention to what Izaya is saying. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Izaya closes his mouth, swallowing hard as he attempts to find some measure of calm for his voice. It’s hard, with his cock jerking in his grip with every motion of Shizuo’s fingers and his palm pressing tight against the hard heat of Shizuo’s length in his hand, but: “You know, this doesn’t seem particularly efficient, does it?”

Shizuo’s laugh is hot at Izaya’s skin. “Izaya--”

“I just mean,” Izaya manages, sounding raw and overheated and not caring enough to try to restrain himself, even if he knew he could. “It’s kind of a pain to jerk us _both_ off, and wouldn’t it be easier for you to have both hands free?” He tips the knee between Shizuo’s sideways to press hard against the inside of the other’s thigh. “It’s not like you have to worry about me getting pregnant or anything.”

“Right,” Shizuo says. “It’s just a matter of convenience, is that it?”

“Exactly,” Izaya agrees, and draws his knee up close to his chest so he can free his leg from under Shizuo’s body. “It’s easier this way, don’t you think?”

Shizuo huffs amusement. “I’m not about to argue with you.”

“Good.” Izaya braces his heels against the mattress under them and angles his hips up, bucking up to meet the forward drive of Shizuo’s fingers into him. “Please, senpai, make use of me.”

Shizuo groans, pushing in hard with his fingers for another stroke before he slides them back and eases them free of Izaya’s body. “Jesus, Izaya.” He ducks his head to look down at what he’s doing, closing his lube-slick fingers around himself just under Izaya’s grip on his cock; Izaya lets his hold go at once, reaching up for Shizuo’s hip instead to hold himself steady as the other lowers his weight to line himself up. “I don’t believe you.”

“I know,” Izaya says, deliberately misunderstanding Shizuo’s words. “I’m a genius.” Shizuo huffs a laugh without looking up, his lips curving into a smile as he rocks his weight forward, as the head of his cock presses against the open heat of Izaya’s body; Izaya hooks his leg around Shizuo’s hip and presses his calf in against the other’s body to urge him closer. “I should have thought of this years ago.”

“It would have saved me a lot of effort,” Shizuo agrees; and then his weight is coming forward, his body flexing as he moves, and the hard heat of his cock is sliding forward and into Izaya’s body, penetrating deep on the first thrust thanks to the work of Shizuo’s fingers easing Izaya for the strain to come. Shizuo groans, Izaya whimpers; and then Shizuo lets himself go, and reaches to brace himself against the bed over Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya resumes the again-forgotten stroke of his grip over himself as Shizuo starts to move into him in a slow, steady pace that lets Izaya feel every inch of depth the other gains.

Neither of them speaks for a moment. This is familiar, simple, this fit of Shizuo’s body against Izaya’s, this angle of Izaya’s legs open for Shizuo’s hips; Izaya loses track of even the structure of his half-formed teasing for the gust of Shizuo’s breathing at his shoulder, and the slick-smooth heat of Shizuo’s cock pushing into him and drawing out, and the outline of the orgasm he can feel forming at the base of his spine, and at the inside of his chest, and in the ache tensing his balls and the length of his cock. He’s starting to lean into it, starting to feel his breathing coming faster on the start of anticipation as his movements speed and his hand tightens; and then, unexpectedly, Shizuo takes a breath, and says “Izaya.”

Izaya has to actively struggle to collect himself. “Senpai.”

“You said this doesn’t count.” Shizuo is moving in a steady rhythm, with the slow, smooth strokes that always make Izaya feel like the other intends to keep this up forever, like he could hold himself back from the cusp of pleasure as long as he wishes. When it comes to stamina, Shizuo has proven an extremely dedicated student. “Right?”

“Ah.” Izaya nods and tries to pull his teasing persona back around him even as he feels it slipping free of his grip. “Of course. We’re just relieving tension in an...efficient way.” He tightens his hold on himself and strokes up with deliberate focus. “I’m technically jerking myself off, really.”

“Right,” Shizuo says, and lifts his head to look at Izaya under him, to turn the full focus of his gaze on the other. There’s tension at the corner of his mouth, the very start of a smile, Izaya thinks; and for a brief moment Izaya remembers another time, with Shizuo leaning in over him with newly blond hair, and a smile like that, and mischief sparkling behind his eyes like it is now. “Makes sense.” And he’s moving at once, so quickly Izaya barely has time to realize the other’s acting before there’s a hand drawing down his arm and fingers closing to a gentle hold against his wrist, and Shizuo is tugging Izaya’s hand up and off himself before Izaya can think to try to resist, pulling the other’s arm up and over his head to pin down alongside his upraised wrist.

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya gasps at this sudden loss of friction, dragging reflexively against the hold Shizuo has on him; but his efforts have no effect, not even to distract Shizuo from catching Izaya’s other wrist under the first to hold them both down against the mattress over the other’s head. Shizuo’s fingers close around his arms, Shizuo’s weight tips forward to brace them in place; and Izaya knows his attempts to break free will be futile even as he pulls against that gentle, unshakeable hold, can feel the awareness catching to heat in the back of his throat as he struggles against the sudden enforced helplessness of Shizuo’s grip. “Shizu-chan, what are you _doing_?”

Shizuo’s smile is slow, dark and curling at the corners of his mouth and up to match the shadows in his gaze. Izaya can feel his cock jerk untouched just from the weight of that look against him. “Making it count.”

“What?” Izaya pulls against Shizuo’s hold again, even though he knows he won’t break free of the restraint, just to feel how completely unshifting Shizuo’s grip on him is. “Making _what_ count?”

“This,” Shizuo says, and rocks himself forward to thrust as deep into Izaya as he can go. Izaya shudders with the sensation, with the pressure as much as with the tremor of heat that runs up his spine from the drag of Shizuo moving inside him, but there’s no chance of him losing focus on the other, not when Shizuo is looking at him like he is. “It doesn’t count if you’re jerking yourself off, right?” Another movement, long and slow and savouring; Izaya’s legs flex involuntarily against Shizuo’s thighs, his spine curving up to arch him closer to Shizuo over him. “What if you come from me fucking you?”

“ _Senpai_ ,” Izaya pants, letting his voice go shaky and hot on the word. It doesn’t take much effort.

Shizuo’s fingers flex against Izaya’s wrists, his hold bracing closer against the other’s skin like he’s trying to press the shape of Izaya’s body into his memory, like he’s trying to memorize the texture of the other’s skin against his. “It’ll count then, won’t it?” He’s moving harder, Izaya thinks, or maybe somehow deeper; maybe it’s just the angle of his hips that is pressing such impossible friction inside Izaya’s body. “I want it to count.”

“Is that it?” Izaya asks, dipping his lashes to gaze up through them at Shizuo, to curve his mouth on the most teasing smile he can muster. “Are you in _love_ with me, senpai?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, with such absolute speed it takes Izaya’s breath away even knowing what answer he would get, even knowing how Shizuo was going to respond. There’s no embarrassment coloring Shizuo’s cheeks, no self-consciousness in his gaze; he’s just watching Izaya, his full attention holding to the other’s features as he keeps moving into him, as he maintains that unbreakably gentle hold to keep Izaya’s wrists up above his head. “I love you, Izaya.” He’s ducking in, dipping in closer to Izaya under him even as Izaya’s breathing catches, even as Izaya’s lashes flutter with heat more than artifice; for a moment Shizuo’s mouth is pressing close against the other’s, punctuating with the heat of a kiss that Izaya can’t help but lift his chin to lean into. He whimpers into Shizuo’s mouth, letting the rising pleasure in him spill over the other’s tongue; and Shizuo breaks away to gasp over Izaya’s lips. “Tell me.”

“Senpai,” Izaya says, meaning it to be teasing, meaning it to be a taunt; but Shizuo thrusts hard into him, the force coming sharp and out-of-rhythm, and the word breaks at the middle, cracking into a moan instead as he quivers with sudden heat.

“Say it,” Shizuo says, and kisses him again, hard and fast, pulling away before Izaya can even think through the possibility of reciprocation. “Say it matters.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya gasps, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, feeling that hold bracing at his wrists, feeling Shizuo moving into him with as much unswerving certainty as he can see behind the dark of the other’s gaze. “It... _ah_...it matters.”

Shizuo’s smile is warm against Izaya’s mouth. “Tell me you love me.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya whimpers. “I love you.”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, and his hold at Izaya’s wrists is easing, his hand is drawing away to brace at the other’s hip instead; but Izaya is reaching for Shizuo instead of for himself, stretching out to catch his arms around the other’s neck and brace his hand flat at Shizuo’s shoulder while he gasps for air to fill the heat rising in his chest.

“Shizuo,” he manages. “Fuck, _Shizuo_.”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, and “Izaya” and Izaya manages an inhale, air enough to brace himself here, to reality, to the fact of this moment; and then Shizuo moves into him, his hips pressing forward to slide their bodies as close as they can be, and Izaya arches, and moans, and comes, his cock pulsing to heat against Shizuo’s body pressing close atop his own. Shizuo makes a low sound in the back of his throat, hot and wanting and a little bit startled; and then he moves harder, and Izaya has to tighten his hold around the other’s shoulders just to keep himself to some fragment of reality. Everything is heat, shuddering through his body and tensing at his muscles and moving inside him, he and Shizuo in the same space, in the same existence; and then Shizuo tenses over him, the strain in his body like a barely-delayed echo of the pleasure still shuddering through Izaya.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Izaya.”

Izaya draws his hand up into Shizuo’s hair, turns his head in against Shizuo’s cheek. “Shizuo,” he says, and Shizuo groans, his whole body trembling into heat just like that, like the sound of Izaya’s voice on his name was enough to push him over the edge. Izaya gusts an exhale, tensing in a last tremor of pleasure as Shizuo follows him into orgasm; and then Shizuo sighs, and Izaya pulls against the other’s shoulder, and Shizuo eases the support of his arm to lean hard against Izaya under him for a long span of heat-hazy minutes. Izaya shuts his eyes to the rare pleasure of Shizuo’s weight pinning him to the soft of the sheets beneath him, and for several breaths neither of them speak.

Finally Shizuo shifts, just slightly, enough to brace an elbow against the bed so he can turn his head to ghost his lips against Izaya’s jaw. “Izaya.”

Izaya winds his fingers farther into Shizuo’s hair. “Senpai.”

Shizuo’s fingers at his hip trail up by a half-inch, just enough for the touch to skim the lowest of Izaya’s ribs. “Did that count?”

Izaya smiles without opening his eyes. “Shizuo,” he says, slow, to taste the shape of the syllables on his tongue; and then he turns his head and opens his eyes to meet the focused gaze Shizuo is turning on him. “It always counts.”

Shizuo’s mouth curves up slow, like the expression is as pleasure-languid as all the rest of him. “I know,” he says, and tips closer, until his nose is bumping against Izaya’s and Izaya’s vision is going hazy from the shift of Shizuo’s lashes so close to his own. “I’m glad you do too.”

Izaya huffs amusement at Shizuo’s mouth. “Of course I do,” he says, in the loftiest tone he can manage while he’s still coming down from the rush of his orgasm and pinned down to the bed under the warmth of Shizuo atop him. “Was _I_ the one who kept you waiting for six years of pining?”

Shizuo coughs something perilously close to a laugh. “Well, now that you mention it--”

“Come _on_ , Shizuo,” Izaya says, talking loud to cut off Shizuo’s speech. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

It’s a completely transparent means to stall Shizuo’s completely accurate clarification, and they both know it. The fact that Shizuo laughs, and says “Kiss you,” and does, speaks more clearly than anything else to how well they understand each other.

He was going about it all wrong before, Izaya decides as the warmth of Shizuo’s mouth melts whatever slow-rising stress there was in him. It turns out it’s easiest to face how he feels when he has Shizuo already there with him.


End file.
